They walked together in silence, through dark quiet streets, four blocks south. They stayed east of the plaza and passed by the courthouse. Reacher glanced at it.
“How was dinner?” he asked.
“My father was fishing. He still thinks you’re my witness.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I can’t tell him. Your information is classified. Thank God.”
“So you let him stew.”
“He’s not stewing. He’s totally confident.”
“He should be.”
“So are you leaving tomorrow?”
“You bet I am. This place is weird.”
“Some girl comes on to you, why does that have to be a big conspiracy?”
Reacher said nothing.
“It’s not unheard-of,” she said. “Well, is it? A bar, the new guy in town all alone, why shouldn’t some girl be interested? You’re not exactly repulsive, you know.”
Reacher just walked.
“What did you say to her to get slapped?”
“I wasn’t showing any interest, she kept on coming on, I asked her if she was a hooker. Something like that.”
“A hooker? That’ll get you slapped in Indiana. And her brothers would hate it.”
“It was a setup, Helen. Let’s be realistic. It’s nice of you to say it, but I’m not the sort of guy that women chase after. I know that, OK? So it was a setup.”
“No woman ever chased you before?”
“She smiled in triumph. Like she had found an opening and delivered me. Like she had succeeded at something.”
Helen Rodin said nothing.
“And those guys weren’t her brothers,” Reacher said. “They were all more or less the same age, and when I checked their licenses they all had different last names.”
“Oh.”
“So it was all staged. Which is weird. There are only two reasons for doing something like that. Fun, or money. A guy in a bar might have a few bucks, but that’s not enough. So they staged it for fun. Which is weird. Doubly weird, because why pick on me? They must have known they were going to get their butts kicked.”
“There were five of them. Five guys never think one guy could kick their butts. Especially not in Indiana.”
“Or maybe I was the only stranger in the bar.”
She looked ahead, down the street. “You’re at the Metropole Palace?”
He nodded. “Me and not too many other people.”
“But I called and they said you weren’t registered. I called all the hotels, looking for you this afternoon.”
“I use aliases in hotels.”
“Why on earth?”
“Just a bad habit. Like I told you. It’s automatic now.”
They went up the front steps together and in through the heavy brass door. It wasn’t late, but the place was quiet. The lobby was deserted. There was a bar in a side room. It was empty, except for a lone barman leaning back against the register.
“Beer,” Helen Rodin said.
“Two,” Reacher said.
They took a table near a curtained window and the guy brought two beers in bottles, two napkins, two chilled glasses, and a bowl of mixed nuts. Reacher signed the check and added his room number.
Helen Rodin smiled. “So who does the Metropole think you are?”
“Jimmy Reese,” Reacher said.
“Who’s he?”
“Wait,” Reacher said.
A flash of surprise in her eyes. He didn’t know why.
I’m pleased to meet you, Jimmy Reese.
“The girl was looking for me personally,” he said. “She wasn’t looking for some random lone stranger. She was looking for Jack Reacher specifically.”
“She was?”
He nodded. “She asked my name. I said Jimmy Reese. It knocked her off balance for a second. She was definitely surprised. Like, You’re not Jimmy Reese, you’re Jack Reacher, someone just told me. She paused, and then she recovered.”
“The first letters are the same. Jimmy Reese, Jack Reacher. People sometimes do that.”
“She was fast,” he said. “She wasn’t as dumb as she looked. Someone pointed her at me, and she wasn’t going to be deflected. Jack Reacher was supposed to get worked over tonight, and she was going to make sure it happened.”
“So who were they?”
“Who knows my name?”
“The police department. You were just there.”
Reacher said nothing.
“What?” Helen said. “Were they cops? Protecting their case?”
“I’m not here to attack their case.”
“But they don’t know that. They think that’s exactly why you’re here.”
“Their case doesn’t need protecting. It’s solid gold. And they didn’t look like cops.”
“Who else has an interest?”
“Rosemary Barr. She has an interest. She knows my name. And she knows why I’m here.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Helen said.
Reacher said nothing.
“That’s ridiculous,” Helen said again. “Rosemary Barr is a mousy little legal secretary. She wouldn’t try a thing like that. She wouldn’t know how. Not in a million years.”
“It was a very amateur attempt.”
“Compared to what? It was five guys. Enough for most people.”
Reacher said nothing.
“Rosemary Barr was at the hospital,” Helen said. “She went over there after the client conference, and she stayed there most of the afternoon, and I bet she’s back there now. Because her brother is waking up. She wants to be with him.”
“A buck gets ten she’s got a cell phone.”
“Can’t use cell phones near the ICU. They cause interference.”
“A pay phone, then.”
“She’s too preoccupied.”
“With saving her brother.”
Helen Rodin said nothing.
“She’s your client,” Reacher said. “Are you sure you’re impartial?”
“You’re not thinking straight. James Barr asked for you. He wanted you here. Therefore his sister wants you here, too. She wants you to stick around long enough to figure out how you can help. And she knows you can help, or why would her brother have asked for you in the first place?”
Reacher said nothing.
“Accept it,” Helen said. “It wasn’t Rosemary Barr. It’s in her best interests to have you here, alive and well and thinking.”
Reacher took a long pull on his beer. Then he nodded. “I was followed to the bar tonight, obviously. From here. Therefore I was followed here, after lunch. If Rosemary went straight to the hospital this morning she didn’t have time to set that up.”
“So we’re back to someone who thinks you can damage the case. Why not the cops? Cops could follow you anywhere. There’s a lot of them and they all have radios.”
“Cops start trouble face-to-face. They don’t get a girl to do it for them.”
“The girl might be a cop, too.”
Reacher shook his head. “Too young. Too vacant. Too much hair.”
Helen took a pen from her purse and wrote something on her cocktail napkin. Slid it across the table.
“My cell phone number,” she said. “You might need it.”
“I don’t think anyone will sue me.”
“I’m not worried about you getting sued. I’m worried about you getting arrested. Even if it wasn’t cops actually doing it, they might have gone to the bar anyway. The owner might have called them. Or the hospital might have called them. Those three boys went to the hospital, that’s for sure. And the girl definitely knows your alias now. So you might be in trouble. If you are, listen to the Miranda and then call me.”
Reacher smiled. “Ambulance chasing?”
“Looking out for you.”
Reacher picked up the napkin. Put it in his back pocket.
“OK,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Are you still going to leave tomorrow?”
“May
be. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll stick around and think about why someone would use violence to protect a case that’s already a hundred percent watertight.”
Grigor Linsky called the Zec on his cell phone from his car.
“They failed,” he said. “I’m very sorry.”
The Zec said nothing, which was worse than a tirade.
“They won’t be traced to us,” Linsky said.
“Will you make sure of that?”
“Certainly.”
The Zec said nothing.
“No harm, no foul,” Linsky said.
“Unless it served merely to provoke the soldier,” the Zec said. “Then there would be harm. Possibly considerable harm. He is James Barr’s friend, after all. That fact will have implications.”
Now Linsky said nothing.
“Let him see you one more time,” the Zec said. “A little additional pressure might help. But after that, don’t let him see you again.”
“And then?”
“Then monitor the situation,” the Zec said. “Make absolutely certain it doesn’t turn from bad to worse.”
Reacher saw Helen Rodin into a cab and then went upstairs to his room. He took off his shirt and put it in the bathroom sink and left it to soak in cold water. He didn’t want bloodstains on a one-day-old shirt. Three days old, maybe. But not a brand-new garment.
Questions. There were a lot of questions, but as always the key would be finding the basic question. The fundamental question. Why would someone use violence to protect a case that was already watertight? First question: Was the case already watertight? He trawled through the day in his head and heard Alex Rodin say: It’s as good as it gets. The best I’ve ever seen. Emerson had said: It’s the best done deal I ever saw. The morticianlike Bellantonio had said: It’s the best crime scene I ever worked. I love it all. Those guys all had professional self-interest in play, of course. And pride, and expediency. But Reacher himself had seen Bellantonio’s work. And had said: It’s a cast-iron solid-gold slam dunk. It’s Willie Mays under a fly ball.
Was it?
Yes, it was. It was Lou Gehrig with the bases loaded. It was as close to a certainty as human life offers.
But that wasn’t the fundamental question.
He rinsed his shirt and wrung it out hard and spread it on the room heater. Turned the heater on high and opened the window. There was no noise outside. Just silence. New York City it wasn’t. It sounded like they rolled up the sidewalks at nine o’clock. I went to Indiana, but it was closed. He lay down on the bed. Stretched out. Damp heat came off his shirt and filled the room with the smell of wet cotton.
What was the fundamental question?
Helen Rodin’s cassette tape was the fundamental question. James Barr’s voice, low, hoarse, frustrated. His demand: Get Jack Reacher for me.
Why would he say that?
Who was Jack Reacher, in James Barr’s eyes?
Fundamentally?
That was the basic question.
The best crime scene I ever worked.
The best I’ve ever seen.
Why did he pay to park?
Will you keep an open mind?
Get Jack Reacher for me.
Jack Reacher stared at his hotel room ceiling. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Then he rolled over one way and pulled the cocktail napkin out of his back pocket. Rolled the other way and dialed the phone. Helen Rodin answered after eight rings. She sounded sleepy. He had woken her up.
“It’s Reacher,” he said.
“Are you in trouble?”
“No, but I’ve got some questions. Is Barr awake yet?”
“No, but he’s close. Rosemary went back to the hospital. She left me a message.”
“What was the weather like last Friday at five?”
“The weather? Friday? It was kind of dull. Cloudy.”
“Is that normal?”
“No, not really. It’s usually sunny. Or else raining. This time of year it’s usually one or the other. More likely sunny.”
“Was it warm or cold?”
“Not cold. But not hot. It was comfortable, I guess.”
“What did you wear to work?”
“What is this, a dirty phone call?”
“Just tell me.”
“Same as I wore today. Pantsuit.”
“No coat?”
“Didn’t need one.”
“Have you got a car?”
“A car? Yes, I’ve got a car. But I use the bus for work.”
“Use your car tomorrow. I’ll meet you at eight o’clock in your office.”
“What’s this about?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Eight o’clock. Go back to sleep now.”
He hung up. Rolled off the bed and checked his shirt. It was warm and wet. But it would be dry by morning. He hoped it wouldn’t shrink.
CHAPTER 5
Reacher woke at six. Took a long cold shower, because the room was hot. But his shirt was dry. It was as stiff as a board, and still the right size. There was no room service. He went out for breakfast. The roads were full of trucks, hauling gravel, hauling fill, mixing concrete, feeding the work zones’ appetites. He dodged them and walked south toward the waterfront. Through the gentrification frontier. He found a workingman’s diner with a basic menu. He drank coffee and ate eggs. He sat at a window and watched the street for aimless doorway lurkers or men in parked cars. Because if he had been followed the night before it was logical to assume he would be followed again. So he kept his eyes open. But he saw nobody.
Then he walked the length of First Street, north. The sun was up on his right. He used store windows as mirrors and watched his back. Plenty of people were going his way, but none of them was following him. He guessed whoever it was would be waiting for him in the plaza, ready to confirm what he expected to see: The witness went to the lawyer’s office.
The fountain was still going. The pool was nearly half full. The tributes were still there, neatly lined up, another day older, a little more faded, a little more wilted. He figured they would be there for a week or so. Until after the last of the funerals. Then they would be removed, discreetly, maybe in the middle of the night, and the city would move on to the next thing.
He sat for a moment on the NBC monolith, with his back to the tower, like a guy wasting time because he was early. Which he was. It was only seven forty-five. There were other people in the same situation. They stood around, singly or in groups of two or three, smoking last cigarettes, reading the morning news, chilling before the daily grind. Reacher looked first at men on their own with newspapers. That was a pretty traditional surveillance cover. Although in his opinion it was due for replacement with a new exiled-smoker cover. Guys standing near doorways and smoking were the new invisibles. Or guys on cell phones. You could stand there with a Nokia up to your ear forever and nobody thought twice.
In the end he settled on a guy who was smoking and talking on a cell phone. He was a short man of about sixty. Maybe more. A damaged man. There was a permanent lopsided tension in the way he held himself. An old spinal injury, maybe. Or busted ribs that had been badly set, years ago. Whatever it was, it made him look uncomfortable and querulous. He wasn’t the type of guy who would happily converse at length. But there he was, on his phone, just talking, aimlessly. He had thin gray hair, recently barbered but not stylishly. He was in a double-breasted suit that had been expensively tailored, but not in the United States. It was square and boxy, too heavy for the weather. Polish, maybe. Or Hungarian. Eastern European, certainly. His face was pale and his eyes were dark. They didn’t glance Reacher’s way, even once.
Reacher checked his watch. Seven fifty-five. He slid off the shiny granite and walked into the tower’s lobby.
______
Grigor Linsky stopped pretending and dialed an actual number on his phone.
“He’s here,” he said. “He just went up.”
“Did he see you?” the Zec asked.
“Yes, I’m sure he did.”
/> “So make that the last time. Now you stay in the shadows.”
Reacher found Helen Rodin already at her desk. She looked settled in, like she had been there a long time already. She was in the same black suit, but her shirt was different. It was a simple scoop neck, not tight. It was china blue and matched her eyes exactly. Her hair was tied back in a long pony tail. Her desk was covered with legal books. Some were facedown, some were faceup. They were all open. She had about eight pages of notes going, on a yellow legal pad. References, case notes, decisions, precedents.
“James Barr is conscious,” she said. “Rosemary called me at five this morning.”
“Is he talking?”
“Only to the doctors. They won’t let anyone else near him yet. Not even Rosemary herself.”
“What about the cops?”
“They’re waiting. But I’ll need to be there first. I can’t let him talk to the cops without representation.”
“What is he saying to the doctors?”
“That he doesn’t know why he’s there. That he doesn’t remember anything about Friday. The doctors say that’s to be expected. Amnesia is predictable with head injuries, possibly covering several days before the trauma. Several weeks, sometimes.”
“Where does that leave you?”
“With two big problems. First, he might be faking the amnesia. And that’s actually very hard to test, either way. So now I’m going to have to find a specialist opinion on that, too. And if he isn’t faking, we’re in a real gray area. If he’s sane now, and he was sane before, but he’s missing a week, then how can he get a fair trial? He won’t be able to participate in his own defense. Not if he hasn’t got the slightest idea what anyone is talking about. And the state put him in that position. They let him get hurt. It was their jail. They can’t do that and then go ahead and try him.”
“What’s your father going to think?”
“He’s going to fight it tooth and nail. Obviously. No prosecutor can afford to admit the possibility that amnesia might screw up a trial. Otherwise everyone would jump right on it. Everyone would be looking to get beat up in pretrial detention. Suddenly nobody would be able to remember anything.”
“It must have happened before.”
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